


Transmission Problems

by obiwankenboneme



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mechanics, F/M, Non-Linear Narrative
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-22
Updated: 2016-03-22
Packaged: 2018-05-28 06:58:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6319216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/obiwankenboneme/pseuds/obiwankenboneme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The reader just bought a new car, but it seems to be experiencing more issues than they expected. The mechanic who works on it is a dipshit. Or at least as far as the reader is concerned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Transmission Problems

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first Vladimir fic in a very long time, so please be nice. It may get expanded on, but I'm not sure. It may just be I write more for Mechanic!Vladimir. Just all depends on my mood. As it is, hope you cubs enjoy, and I love you all!

Tapping your sneaker-clad foot impatiently against the cement of the waiting room floor, you bite down on your thumbnail. _This could not **possibly** get worse_, you think to yourself as a gaggle of men walk by the open door of the shop, smirks on their faces when they see you.

You were in absolute _hell_ , and on the hottest day of the year too. Or so it seemed; most every day in California could get up there in terms of heat, and being on the Southern tip was not a bonus. Licking your dry lips, you pray the guy will come back with good news. You’ve only had the car for a total of two months, so unless you were cursed, whatever problem was going on was _not_ your fault. It shouldn’t be your fault, right?

Maybe it was. Who cares at this point?! All you want is your damn car fixed and the heat to stop making your skin all sticky and for the chance to get to your apartment, which is what you needed _desperately_ right now. As if in answer to your silent screams, a man, short and portly, comes wandering through the door to the garage. He’s not dressed like you would expect of a mechanic – wearing black slacks and a rolled up white shirt – but you don’t question it. _Must be the boss of the place._

“Come with me please.” His voice is soft, which catches you off guard. You were used to rough voices and rougher looking men when you thought of mechanics. At least, based on the mechanics you had been to. _Look at me, stigmatizing mechanics all around the world._

Stepping into the workshop after the man, you’re met with a multitude of noises, all of them fairly loud. Sure, you had been in a few repair shops in your time, but none this busy or this _loud_. If the man in front of you was talking, you couldn’t hear, because the sounds of tires being switched off and engines being run was impossible to hear _anything_ over. You stumble a bit over your feet when you realize the man is slowing down, your sneakers squelching against the cement of the shop’s floor.

The man stops in front of your car, kicking at the creeper that the guy, who was working on your car, was stretched out on underneath said vehicle. “Ranskahov! Owner of the car is here to see what you’re working on. Give ‘em a price and get back to work.”

He pats your shoulder on his way by, and when the man under your car doesn’t respond, you worry fleetingly that the other man’s voice was too soft to hear over everything. It had been a lot softer than most of the other sounds that were happening in the garage; it would be perfectly understandable. Maybe if you just-. As you squat down to call the mechanic again, the creeper is basically tossed out from under your car, tattooed, oil-covered hands gripping the edge of your car to stop the momentum.

Blue eyes, blonde hair and a scowl look back at you, the name _Vladimir_ stitched into the patch on the pocket of his jumpsuit. Straightening up, he grabs a rag and wipes his hands off before standing and walking over to the front of your car, where the hood is propped open. You take a moment to stare at him and take it all in. His jumpsuit was unbuttoned to around his navel, a white tank-top underneath that was just as filthy as the rag in his hand. He had a little spot of grease on his face, and you could see tattoos adorning every inch of skin your eyes land on.

He hasn’t spoken, but you assume you’re supposed to follow him, and he points at something that looks far too similar to everything else in the hood. You weren’t exactly an expert in cars, no matter how badly your father had wished it. “Transmission is busted. Needs replacement. Expensive, but necessary.”

With that, he walks back around you, sitting down on the creeper again and pushing himself back under your car. Standing there another minute, you shake your head and move over to where he is, grabbing the edge of the creeper and yanking him back out from under your car.

“Now just hold on a damn minute _Vladimir_ ,” you sneer, making his eyes squint at you. “I may now know a lot about cars, but that makes about _zero_ sense. I bought this car not even two months ago, and I’ve been keeping it in pristine shape. How is the transmission busted already? And if that’s the case, why are you _under_ my car and not the hood? I’m pretty sure you don’t fix transmission problems from beneath the car.”

Rather than answer immediately, he stands, towering over you and crowding you against a column before he grabs something from the toolbox behind you. His eyes are intense, and while better men (or women) might have looked away, you were not in the mood. It was hot, you were hungry and tired, and this damn mechanic (damn _hot_ mechanic) was being a fucking prick. At least it felt like it, but that might just be because it was so fucking hot outside. When you don’t back down, the corner of his mouth turns up in a smirk, his head tilting away as he backs up and sits down on the creeper again.

“Is called full system check, возлюбленная1,” Vladimir responds. 

His tone makes you scowl, and you’re about to snap that he’s a dick when his hand shoots up, tattoos flexing beneath his skin as he grabs the edge of the car. “Reminds me. We take cash only. Cost something like 1,900. Does not include working cost.”  

You scowl even harder, wanting to snap at him about how that’s ludicrous – where the hell were you supposed to get that kind of money?! - but instead, you just turn on your heel and storm out. Screw him and the car. Where were you going to scrounge up that kind of money? You barely had enough to pay for all your other costs. Taking your phone out of your pocket, you call up your friend, needing a ride and a game plan.  

* * *

 

“There a reason you get off to making women dislike you?” Dimitri asks, leaning against the cement column near where Vladimir is working.  

Dimitri and Vladimir had been working for almost the same amount of time, and while Vladimir was the one that women swooned over, Dimitri was the one the women actually got. Vladimir was too intense to actually take on the full time task of being with someone. At least that’s what he tells everyone when they ask him if he’s been in a relationship lately. He’ll parade around the fact that he’s slept with tons of women, but he’s never got a girl to actually go home to.  

Rolling out from under the car, Vladimir doesn’t answer immediately, cleaning his hands and reaching for his water. Taking a gulp, he sighs and rubs at his jaw. He really should shave. This stubble business was something his brother could live with, but not him. Too roguish.  

“Do not know what you are talking about. I do not make them dislike me. I am mechanic. Fix cars and that is all. No time for pretty women.”  

Dimitri grins wide, squatting down near his friend and shoving his shoulder. “You think she’s pretty? Ooooh boy, you’re going to be a real sucker for her then. She seemed mighty pissed off when she left.” 

Vladimir shoves Dimitri away, rolling his eyes at his friend. Dimitri doesn’t let that phase him, raising a brow at the mess of tools Vladimir had lying around. “What are you doing tinkering under there anyway? We don’t do full inspections unless specifically requested. Costs more,” he muses.  

Vladimir finishes his gulp of water, shoving the bottle back near his toolbox. Moving under the car again, he smirks as he looks back at Dimitri. “Car is shit, fixing it for free. Maybe get date out of it. Who knows.” He shrugs to Dimitri’s look of incredulity, focusing on the underside of the car.  

Dimitri’s scoff makes Vladimir grin as he gets back to work, thinking about how you really were very pretty. As if his brain finally catches up with everything else, he scowls. This was not okay.  

* * *

 

It takes a good three weeks for you to manage the money to pay for the transmission and labor, but you manage it, money shoved into an envelope that you hand to Vladimir when you finally get back to the garage. His eyebrow raises at the stuffed envelope, fingers flicking over the cash as he counts. Putting it underneath a set of tools in his toolbox, he goes back to inspecting the engine.  

“Three weeks’ worth of over time got me enough for this damn piece of crap, so I hope it can be as beneficial to you. I just need my baby back in action so I can stop asking my friends for rides,” you sigh, taking a seat on the stool beside the car.  

Noticing that he’s not speaking, you kick at the tire, making his head jerk under the hood. The resounding _thwap_ of his head hitting the metal has you jumping up, a hiss of apology escaping your mouth as you gently reach up and pull his head towards you. Vladimir has direct view of your chest, but he can’t get past how your fingers are softly touching his scalp, searching for any signs of major injury. Tutting under your breath, you murmur apologies to him, and Vladimir lets himself take a minute to stare down at your cleavage.  

Finding no damage, you lift his head, your hands cupping his cheeks as you inspect the rest of him. The look of concern on your face reminds him a lot of his mother back in Russia. Always so worried about him and Toly. It makes something in his heart swell a little, happy to have something connect him to home. He feels your fingers drag over his scar, but he quickly steps away, rubbing at the back of his head where he had hit it and scowling. The scowl was less for effect and more because he knew that the spot would bruise later. Great.  

“I’m really sorry about that. I didn’t know you were so focused. Umm, but everything is alright now? With my car, I mean,” you ramble, waving your hands towards your car before folding them under your armpits.  

“New transmission and all? No other unexpected damages to my car?” you ask, adjusting your arms under your chest, pushing your boobs and bra up more. This was really becoming a problem for Vladimir, who was now _solely_ focused on how good you looked in the Daisy Duke style shorts and loose fitting tank top. His eyes trail down your legs, seeing the black converse on your feet, something settling low in his stomach that hadn’t in a while.  

Clearing his throat, he looks back into your car, trying to find if there was anything else wrong. Not a _damn thing_. While it was a blessing, it was also a curse. He had spent so long getting this together, and this was only the second time he was seeing you. Most likely the last too. With that thought in mind, he steps back, closes the hood and wipes his hands. Waving a grease stained hand towards the driver’s side, he nods. 

“Should be fine. Test it out.”  You squeal, climbing behind the wheel and starting it up, sighing in bliss at the soft purr. Vladimir has to restrain himself from laughing at the sound you made. Patting the dash, you smile out at Vladimir, who’s grinning, though it doesn’t seem to reach his eyes. Turning off the car, you wander over to where he’s putting away his tools. Biting down on your bottom lip, you tap his shoulder, stepping aside when he turns towards you. 

Finally taking in his figure, you feel a small part of you dying inside. _God he looks gorgeous_. He’s wearing jeans this time around, which cling to his thighs and other parts of him you shouldn’t be so drawn to. Even the oil smeared, off-white t-shirt he’s wearing fit too well, and you couldn’t stop ogling.  

“Yes?” His eyebrow raises, and your line of vision is drawn right to his scar. How could a scar make someone look so… _attractive_? Of course, the tattoos only added to that, but you shake the thoughts from your head. _Not a good time to be fantasizing Y/N._  

“Thanks. For fixing up this puppy, and for giving me the free full check and all. I know that’s normally only done when requested, and usually expensive as hell too. Umm, if you happen to have a break at some point, there’s this really good diner down the street.” You chew on your thumbnail again, looking everywhere but at him before exhaling and uncrossing your arms – when had you crossed them under your chest again – waving them about in a bit of a frantic state.  

“I guess…I’m just saying…I’d like to repay you with dinner. If you want it.”  

Silence meets you, and you’re just about to tell him to forget it when he responds: “Da. I would like that. I am off at six. Want me to meet you there or here?”  

Your mouth hangs open at his reply, but you shut it with a quick snap, smiling. “I’ll meet you here. I can take this though, right? I don’t have to call up my friend for a ride back to my apartment?” Your finger is pointed at your car, which Vladimir chuckles and nods at.  

“Da, can take it. See you at six.”


End file.
